In Fear And Faith
by IMightBeWriter
Summary: AU. With John's drinking habits out of control, a 14-year-old Dean struggles to protect both of his brothers while trying to take care of his father's well-being at the same time. *A Max's Childhood Story. Warnings inside.*


**Disclaimer: **We all know that a seventeen year old girl can not own something as colossal as Supernatural and still be struggling to pay for her schooling, so it's obvous that everything belongs to EK...except the plot. Yeah, the plot's all mine! :)

**Warning: **This story is rated T for langauge, alcoholism, and child abuse. If any of these things make you uncomfortable, than I strongly suggest that you don't read this!

**A/N: **I know, I know! I'm already three stories in, but I couldn't help it. This plot bunny has been bugging me for weeks now, and I've finally caved in! The idea basically came about while I was reading some of the other "Max's Childhood" stories, and realized that Dean could never just up and leave. He's way too committed to his father to leave him high and dry like that. So, this is my interpretation. And, sorry if the ending seems a little rushed, I'm working on the official chapter one at the same time and I wasn't sure how to end it. Anyways, enjoy and review if you get the chance?

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><p><em>"'Cause we are broken. What must we do to restore, out innocence, and all the promise we adored. Give us life again, 'cause we just wanna be whole." ~ Paramore<em>

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><p><strong>Prologue: We Are Broken<strong>

The moon was pale and glowing as it hung limply in the pitch black canvas of night sky. It was beautiful, breath-taking even, casting such a radiant white light in comparison to the unfilled darkness that surrounded it. Dean leaned back until his spine was met with the shingles of the roof, folding his arms comfortably across his chest once he was situated. He stared up at the picturesque scenery and released a soft sigh of content, allowing himself to bask in the moonlight streaking across his face.

He could remember doing this when he was little. The memories themselves were fuzzy and not vividly detailed, but stargazing with his mother had become a bit of a tradition during the early portion of his childhood. Nearly every other night, once Sammy was asleep in bed and his dad was planted in front of the television, Dean could recall his mom sneaking into his room in the middle of the night. 'Wake up, honey' she'd whisper to him softly. 'It's time to look for our shooting star'. And it didn't matter how tired he was, or if he had school in the morning, the two of them would lie out in the backyard and wait for a shooting star to pass them. Granted, it was an odd way to spend time together, but it was their time to spend together. It was their own secret special moment.

And every other night, once Sam and Adam were fast asleep in bed and John was passed out on the couch from indulging in too much Jack Daniels, Dean would sneak up to the roof of wherever they were staying, and wait and see if one of those damn stars would pass him. It was something that he had been doing since he was four years old, something that was programmed into his mind, and he swore that he would continue doing it until the day he died.

Although, sometimes he'd forget all about the memories, and the tradition. Sometimes he'd watch the sky for hours on end, if only to clear his mind of the events that took place that day.

He grabbed the bottle of root-beer from beside him and placed it gently against his swelling cheek, the bluish purple tint a reminder of what had happened when he disrespected his father earlier that day. The glass was pleasantly cold and sweating. A shiver racked his spine as some of the water droplets landed on his unsuspecting collarbone, but he didn't care. The combination of cooling wetness numbed the throb of his irritated flesh, soothing his tense muscles into a half state of relaxation.

As he stared out into the night, he couldn't help but think that this was exactly what he needed after such a rough day. Just some time alone with himself and whatever open scenery rested in front of him to land his gaze on. No drinking, no screaming, no fighting. Just peace, and quiet, and sincerity. If he had that every once in a while, then Dean would be happy. He didn't need anything else the world had to offer him.

Unable to hold off quenching his thirst any longer, he popped the cap off of the bottle of root-beer and took a long pull from it. His throat was painfully dry, and grain-like, as if he'd swallowed a ton of sand for dinner. The fizzy liquid felt amazing as it traveled down his esophagus, massaging everything it touched with ice cold bubbles.

Dean let out a quiet chuckle, not only from the tingling sensation that the carbonated soda left him, but also because he knew that if Sam were awake, he'd definitely be getting a thorough lecture about how Mrs. O'Keeffe says that you're not supposed to eat or drink while laying down; Mrs. O'Keeffe being Sam's fourth-grade science teacher.

For some reason, Dean always found it funny whenever Sam started lecturing him on something. He had to admit that it got annoying sometimes, especially when he was trying to do something important and Sam kept on interrupting him, but there was just something about the way that Sam held himself when he was upset with Dean – scrawny arms crossed over his chest in a disapproving manner with that small frown twisted onto his face, the one that Dean often found himself staring at whenever he'd done something wrong– that made the older boy want to laugh.

It was probably the fact that it was so different from when John was angry with him. Because when John was angry, there was no small frown, or stance of disapproval, as much as Dean would've liked it that way. No, when John was angry, Dean knew it, because the only thing that existed was John's anger – John's anger, and Dean's blood, and Dean's pain and even Dean's tears at times. That was it. Apart from those four things, everything else ceased to exist.

Releasing another sigh, Dean tilted the bottle back and took another long swig. However, this time the soda left him with a different impression than it had at first. The bubbles were too cold, and too dense. He had to swallow afterwards because if he didn't, he feared they would suffocate him. In the end, the only good that gotten him was a coughing fit, one he tried so desperately to quiet by shoving his face into his jean-clad thighs.

Apparently though, it was too late.

"Dean?"

Dean gasped, his lithe body jerking itself upright as he whirled around to face the intruder…of the roof.

"Christ, Sammy!" he panted, heart thudding inside of his chest. He released another small string of coughs. "Don't do that!"

"Sorry, I d'nt m…mean to scare yah." Sam mumbled through a long yawn, rubbing the sleep still encrusted to his eyes. It was then that Dean noticed that his makeshift pajamas (which consisted of a blue t-shirt and an old pair of Dean's flannel pajama bottoms) were rumpled, and his light brown shaggy hair flopped every which way, both signs indicating that the boy had literally just woken up.

"Eh, it's okay. I'm used to you looking like a sight for sore eyes." The tease left his lips so easily that he didn't need to think about it.

He carefully picked the abandoned bottle of root-beer back up and made his way over to the window that led into the bedroom he shared with his brothers. Giving Sam a soft shove backward, Dean slid his legs through the threshold first and then the rest of his body followed in after. He was a little disappointed that he had to return to the confides of their bedroom, but at the same time, he didn't want Sam to get the idea that he could just climb out onto the roof while he was still half-asleep, perfectly capable of losing his footing and falling to the ground thirty feet below.

"What were you doing out there?" Sam asked, taking a seat at the edge of the bed they shared. It was an average sized bed, not too big but not incredibly small neither and it had an okay mattress to it, one that didn't hurt your back from laying on it for too long. Dean supposed he liked it enough to sleep there every night, instead of taking a more comfortable spot on the floor like at most of the motels they stayed at.

"Nothing." Dean answered, glancing over Sam's shoulder to make sure he hadn't woken Adam up when he'd came inside. Fortunately, the toddler was still in a deep slumber, the picture of innocence as his thumb was popped firmly into his mouth, which Dean noticed, would move every few seconds when he sucked on it.

"Has he been asleep all night?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "No, he woke up around two hours ago when you were busy cleaning Dad up."

Dean frowned a little, but he wasn't really surprised by it.

It was a rare occasion for the youngestWinchesterto sleep soundly throughout the night. Usually, Dean was lucky if he managed to get the little boy into the bed at all without having to forcefully place him on the mattress and then slide underneath the covers with him. Sam had even tried to keep Adam company a few times, but after spending three hours of watching nothing but Winnie the Pooh on their seventeen inch television screen every night, Sam had declared that some line had been crossed about cartoons and babies and older kids, and had promptly reemployed Dean for the job.

"How'd you get him back to sleep?" Dean asked, sitting cautiously beside Sam to make sure that the bed didn't move so much when he sat down.

Sam shrugged. "I didn't…not really. He heard Dad yellin' at you and got scared, so I told him that you'd be fine and that I wouldn't let Dad inside, even though I knew that Dad was too drunk to walk up the steps anyway. Then when you came back upstairs, he kinda fell back to sleep himself and-"

Dean dropped a hand on Sam's shoulder to stop his brother's rambling. "Geeze, Sammy. Just breathe for a second." the older boy let out a small laugh.

Sam's face darkened three shades of red and he averted his gaze to the floor. "Right, sorry…"

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. "Sorry for what? You didn't do anything."

"…Dad says I talk too much." Sam's voice was barely a whisper as he lifted a small portion of hair to show a fresh patch of purple discoloration on his neck.

Dean cursed underneath his breath, gently turning the younger boy's head to the side so he could inspect the bruise more closely. "This looks new. When did it happen?"

"Today…when you were in detention."

It was quiet for a long while after that. Neither of them spoke, because neither of them had anything worth adding to the change in their conversation. Sam was still staring at the floor, gnawing at his lip in deep thought. He tried to think of something to say, anything to break the silence between them. Sam hated silence, more than he hated loud noises. Silence was thick, and suffocating. It didn't move, it didn't stop, it didn't show mercy; especially the rare silences that fell between him and his older brother. But every time he came up with something good, he quickly dismissed it in hopes that maybe Dean would be the one to break the silence.

But Dean didn't speak either. His jaw was clenched painfully tight, as if it was wired shut, refusing to allow him to speak. The only thought running through his mind at the moment was the anger that was coursing through him. He was angry at John, angry at his stupid English teacher who gave him the detention, and angry at Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo and all the other stupid assholes who unknowingly screwed up their lives. But most of all, he was angry at himself, and that anger alone was as scorching and relentless as the fire burning behind his forest green eyes. How could he have left Sam all alone like that, knowing that it was nearly three o'clock when school let out and John would already be well into his sixth beer? How could he be so stupid and reckless, back talking to his teacher instead of just doing the damn assignment like he should've done in the first place?

_Because none of that crap is important, son. The only things you need to know are what's gonna keep you and your family alive. _John's voice echoed at the back of his mind. No, Dean corrected himself, it wasn't John's voice. It was his dad's voice; the same dad that used to take him out shooting and play catch with him, and read Sammy a bedtime story every night even though he was too little to understand anything.

_I know, Dad. I know._

Dean let out a tired sigh, giving Sam a light tap on the leg once he was able to jostle himself out of his thoughts. "Alright, c'mon. Last day of school tomorrow, so let's hit the hay."

"What about the bruises?" Sam asked, crawling under the covers.

Dean rolled over to the other side of the bed, so that Adam was safely tucked in between them in case he had another nightmare. Then, he allowed his body to fully collapse onto the mattress in exhaustion.

"We'll worry about it in the morning." He let out a yawn. "Fer'now let's just get some sleep."

_Or else I think I'll drop dead in English class and get another detention…_

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><p><strong>AN: **P.S. I am looking for a BETA for this. If you're interested, please send me a PM or e-mail!


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